


Lost But Not Found

by PeachWord



Category: White Collar
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Dark, Forced Prostitution, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Canonical Character Death, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements, explicit content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-16 19:14:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1358758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeachWord/pseuds/PeachWord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whomever who took Neal at the end of 5X13 was a very bad man and used him for very bad things. Peter searches for him and tries to hold the pieces together in the aftermath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

“You don’t have to do this, Boss.”

“Yes I do, Jones.”

Peter moved his feet, one in front of the other. He was dragging. It was as if his mind was telling his body not to go any further. He took a deep breath before opening the door.

“Sorry for calling so late, Agent Burke.”

Peter didn’t answer, not because he didn’t want to, he just couldn’t. The room smelled of embalming fluid and plastic. There was no aroma indicating that what lay before him in the basement of the morgue was in fact a body. The flesh, muscle and blood enclosed within the black bag took on the form of a human carcass but without that smell of death, there was no way to know it. He looked away as the sound of the zipper opening echoed through his ears.

“Agent Burke?”

But he still wouldn’t bring his eyes to the body as his feet shuffled towards the table. He was looking anywhere but where he had to. But he had to look eventually, it was the only way to get closure, he knew that. Tears formed in his eyes as they were raised high enough to see a mass of thick wavy black hair. He shut them close, he couldn’t look anymore.

“I know this is difficult for you--” Peter raised his hand. He didn’t know a thing. He didn’t know how much his blood boiled, how many tears he cried to his wife, how many nights he lost sleep trying to find his friend, how many hours he looked at the photos sent to the bureau, taunting him, telling him he wouldn’t find him but would only see the slow and painful destruction of a human being into nothing. He didn’t know how sick to his stomach he had been for the past 3 months waiting, knowing that every day he didn’t find Neal Caffrey was just one more for the chance to get a phone call such as this.

What started as a knowing feeling that he had run because he was angry quickly turned into a cat and mouse game, a sadistic nightmare that he knew he would never wake up from and end with Peter identifying the body before him as his C.I.

When he opened his eyes, tears had already fallen onto his cheap leather shoes, the kind Neal made fun of every time he wore them. He stopped breathing as his eyes roamed the body, deeps jagged cuts ran through the skin along the arms and stomach, black and purple bruises littered the wrists and neck, blood smeared along pale skin in blotches so random it almost looked like a bizarre Picasso painting.

He peered, actually stepping closer to get a better look and a million thoughts ran through his tired head. Should I have been a better boss, a better friend, a better person? Should the pale and battered body in front of him be breathing if he had done a better job? Should Neal Caffrey be lying here, dead before him? The answers to all those questions were yes, except for the last one. The answer to his last question was no, simply because it was wrong and also because it did not apply.

“This is not Neal Caffrey’s body.”

***************

“You know what happens when I have to ask twice bitch.”

He didn’t respond verbally. He just swallowed the blood in his mouth and focused on the metallic taste that dripped down his sore throat as he obeyed the command.

He whimpered when the fingers dug into his skin as the cuts and scratches from the previous encounters had not yet healed. His eyes fixated robotically to the floor, spackled with his own blood. When he finally felt the warm ooze coat his back he still didn’t move an inch. He knew better. He wasn’t in pain though; he stopped feeling that a long time ago, now he was just uncomfortable.

“It’s so much better when you don’t scream.”

Acidic fire bubbled in his stomach and chest as the usual punches battered his body. This would continue until he begged for mercy.

 _Peter will find me_ , he thought stupidly. _Because he always finds me . . . because he was smarter than him_.

Now he wanted to curl into a ball and make himself as small as possible but the way he was positioned on all fours, tied by thick rope and heavy metal chains, told him couldn’t do that. When then the tears came like clockwork, he cursed himself, but he couldn’t help it. He knew crying did him no service but it made a small part of him happy because it meant there was a part of him that still cared. He couldn’t stop caring either, no matter how much he tried.

“You’re getting good at this. Your cell mate didn’t get this far.”

He closed his eyes and pictured Mark’s body lying on his side, his lifeless blue eyes staring at him, telling him he was dead. Mark had become his only other companion, the only other one to understand the hell they were trapped in, the only other one to hold hands at night, the only other one to talk to and to say to one another they were going to get out of here alive. It was scary because Mark looked similar to himself, dark black wavy hair, muscular thin build, crystal blue eyes. But it was most scary because he knew he would share the same fate.

“I told you, you’re not pretty when you cry.”

The flash from the camera stung his eyes tremendously; stars danced in front of his brain and made him dizzy with exhaustion. He hated this part.

“Smile and I’ll give you the night off.”

After many more flashes he finally succumbed. Blood dribbled down his chin, hot and thick like burnt molasses.

Callous hands finally entangled themselves around his skin as the ropes were cut. Feeling slowly crept back into his extremities. He still didn’t move. He may have been unbound but he knew he wasn’t free, like an endangered species on display.

******************

“What kind of business you in?”

“No details, remember?” Jones said as he sat down.

“Of course. Curiosity gets the better of me.” 

The pit in his stomach was growing with every second near this son of a bitch. Rick Johnson was a person the white collar division had been looking into for weeks. He allegedly ran a high end prostitution ring. It had taken a month to set this sting up and he felt sick about it the whole time. A lot of people thought that having a job with the FBI was glamorous and stylized, it was anything but. They found criminals yes, but some of them were the grit of the earth; scum of the universe, this situation was just that.

“These are the $100,000 prizes and these, these are the $500,000 prizes,” Johnson said as he slid two thick binders towards him.

“What’s the difference between the two?”

“Take a look, you’ll see.”

Jones re-inflated the iron cast around his stomach and grabbed the binders. The first one showed pictures of men of all kind. Fat, thin, tall, short, all of them were smiling. They looked like they wanted to be offered for sale. He slowly grabbed the second binder. He dug his nails into his wrist to keep himself from jumping across the table and strangling the monster in front of him. These men were tied up, faint bruises danced around their faces and bare chests.

“The last few pages of that one show my crème de la crème, the very best.”

Jones nodded as he continued to the flip through the binder. He stopped on the second to last page. “Jesus,” Jones blurted. Shit, he didn’t mean to say that aloud.

Johnson leaned over to see. “Oh yea, him. I get that reaction a lot. He’s very special.”

Jones composed himself. “Is he?”

“Oh yes. Only had him for a few months, but I’ve made back my money 10 times over already with him. He’s a little feisty but that’s what makes him special . . . and those eyes.”

“$500,000?”

“Actually he’s worth $600,000. Like I said, he’s worth it. I personally know.”

Jones bit his lip so hard he tasted blood but he forced a smile.

“So you want him? You’ll have him for four hours.”

“And I can do whatever I want with him?”

Johnson nodded. “Just don’t kill him. I had a guy about a month ago get pretty rough with him, I won’t go into details but it put him out of commission for two weeks. I lost a lot of money.”

Jones felt the bile rise in his throat. “I’ll take him.”

“Alright good. He’s already been tranquilized.”

“T-tranquilized?”

“Stops him from moving around, like I said, he’s feisty. It’s mild though, he can still move, he just can’t get away from you. He’ll do what you say, I guarantee.”

“I’ll take him.”

“Alright good. Let’s talk payment first.”

Jones nodded and grabbed his briefcase. He wanted instead to sling this bastard in front of him. He knew he couldn’t. There were men throughout the warehouse with knives and guns.

He handed Johnson the money. “I believe we have a deal,” Jones said as he took out the stacks of cash.

Johnson greedily put his hands on the money, “I believe we do.”

Now Jones had to wait for his backup.

The rush of federal agents into the building was chaotic.

“What the hell?” Johnson screamed as he heard the commotion.

“Don’t fucking move.” Jones said as he took out his gun and pointed it at the monster.

“You son of a bitch.”

“Take me to him now.” Jones said.

“Oh, I get it. He’s one of yours.”

“Take me to him,” Jones repeated as he kept his gun on him.

*************

Peter sighed when his phone rang. He didn’t want to get out of bed. He felt sad today, sadder than he did in the days before and he didn’t know why. He knew initially why but today just felt different. Seeing that body last week really shook him.

“Boss.”

“Hey Diana, how did the sting go?”

“Peter…” The pit in his stomach grew as he sat up. This was it; that tone in her voice, this was the end.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“No.”

“No what? No you didn’t find him? Is Jones okay?”

“No, he’s not dead. We found him Peter. We found Neal.”

Peter dropped the phone. He couldn’t move for 30 seconds. He jumped out of bed and grabbed his cell, looking for clean clothes as quickly as he could. “Diana?”

“We’re on our way to Cedar Sinai. But Peter…I don’t…I don’t know if you should come just yet.”

“What?” And the pit in his stomach returned.

Diana was crying but trying her best to conceal it. “He...I just…”

“I’m coming now.” Peter didn’t know what she was trying to protect him from, but she couldn’t stop him and she knew it.

“Okay.”

He doesn’t remember driving to the hospital. He also couldn’t understand how he got there before the ambulance did. He screamed at the staff, demanding an explanation. They looked at him with wide eyes, taken aback by his abrasiveness and badge.

And when the doors pushed open and a gurney sped towards him, his knees buckled. He became dizzy as he saw the man on it, his bare bruised shoulders and chest peeking out beneath the blanket draped over him, the oxygen mask covering the blood spackled across his face. He tried to follow but Diana and Jones grabbed his arms. He doesn’t remember much after that.

************

“Please, come back tomorrow,” the doctor said gently.

Peter bit his lip, his hands trembled. “Please doctor. I just need to see him for a minute, that’s all.”

“He’s asleep Agent Burke. He’s been through a lot of trauma. Come back tomorrow.”

Peter shook his head. She didn’t know what he had been through and now to come so close yet still be so far. “I’ll wait here then, I’ll wait all night, I don’t care.”

The doctor nodded. “Okay, just for a minute.”

Peter felt tears come to his eyes and for some reason he hugged the young doctor. “Thank you.”

She nodded. She understood.

He sat longer than he should have. He put his hand over Neal’s just to make sure he was real. “Oh God Neal.” The bruises were everywhere, on his face, on his arms, on his neck. Cuts littered his face too, deep and jagged and the dried blood in his hair made him cringe. He was so thin, his cheeks were sunken into his pale face, his collar bone was so protruded Peter knew it was unnatural. Lines of pain etched into his face, around his eyes, even as he slept. “I’m sorry Neal, I’m so sorry.”

***********

He opened his eyes slowly. He held his breath as he realized he was in a new surrounding, another hell perhaps. He became alarmed at the nakedness of his wrists; he was not shackled.

He felt warm too. His body was covered in thin material, his back lay upon styrofoam board…this wasn’t right…had he been bought by a king? A billionaire who wanted to give him some luxuries for a few hours?

The room his was in was gray and bare but had more light than he was accustomed to. It was clean too, much cleaner than what he was used to. He reached for whatever plastic was over his mouth, again surprised by the freeness of his hands.

“Neal?”

He blinked again, trying to shake the tiredness from his eyes. That voice…that voice sounded so strange, like he knew it. He tried to move his body but he was weak today, and he felt stiff, like tape had been placed around his midsection to keep his ribs from falling out of his skin. This was wrong, all wrong.

“Neal, it’s me Peter. You’re in the hospital. Neal? Please, look at me…”

Neal tried to focus but all he saw was blurs. They gave him too much of that tranquilizer again, his mind was being cruel to him, making him think things that weren’t there, that weren’t true. A blob appeared above his face, it did indeed look like Peter from what he could make out. He wanted to speak to it but his mouth wouldn’t cooperate.

“Neal, it’s okay, you’re safe.”

He felt a gentle hand over his. He waited, waited and waited for that hand to roam elsewhere, but it didn’t. He waited more, this couldn’t be real. He closed his eyes and waited again, either for the tears to stop leaking out of the corner of his eyes or for the nightmare to end.

***********

“How is he today?”

The doctor cranked her neck. “He’s being a little difficult.”

“What do you mean?”

“He won’t let me examine him.”

Peter nodded. Everyone was trying to be as gentle as possible around Neal, respecting his requests not to have anyone touch him but he needed medical attention.

“I don’t want to sedate him but his shoulder needs to be redressed.”

Peter sighed. There was a very bad cut on the back of his shoulder, it had become infected and needed to be treated every few hours. It became harder and harder for the doctor to do it, Neal had become understandably anxious every time any medical personnel touched him.

It took some convincing, mostly just Peter talking but finally Neal nodded. That was another thing, Neal didn’t speak much. He simply nodded and looked away. He slept most of the time or kept his eyes fixated on the 3 channels the television provided. He refused to talk to the psychologist.

Peter said in the chair directly facing Neal who was now sitting at the edge of it, his thin legs sticking out, dangling over the side as the doctor gently lowered his gown. Peter did his best to strike up conversation, trying to distract him from the obvious pain he was in as the doctor touched his shoulder. He tried to ignore the bruises and cuts that poked out underneath the gown.

Neal wiped his eyes, he couldn’t stop crying today. He cut Peter off in the middle of his sentence. “Peter?”

“Yes?” Peter asked excitingly as Neal hadn’t directly addressed him since his stay in the hospital.

Neal looked up, stared into his eyes. “Why’d it take you so long to find me?”

Peter didn’t give an answer. He didn’t have one.

************

Peter sat with him, day after day. He watched the bruises lighten from black and blue to violet and yellow. The scars on his back didn’t lighten though, those remained. Neal continued to remain quiet. He spoke when spoken to and Peter understood, he had been conditioned this way.

He saw the pictures of that hell he was chained to. He threw up the first time and the second time, and by the third time he broke his middle and index finger when he punched the wall in his office from the anger that exploded inside of him.

“Peter?” He looked up from the newspaper, enchanted by the thought of engaging in conversation with the broken man before him. He just prayed he didn’t ask him another question he didn’t have the answer to.

“Where…when…” and then he stopped, he couldn’t bring himself to finish.

“What is it Neal?” he asked gently.

“Did you find Mark?”

Peter had the answer this time, but he didn’t want to share it with him. He could see the water already building up in his eyes, this might break him further, but not answering would guarantee it.

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“The Hudson river.”

“Did he…”

“Yes. He was already dead. I’m sorry Neal.”

“I know…I held his hand when he took his last breath.”

“Dammit,” Peter uttered.

“I was going to ask if he had any family…”

“He had a father...but he died a few years ago.”

Neal nodded, his eyes drifted quickly. He turned on his side, away from Peter’s face. “He was alone.”

Peter wanted to tell him he wasn’t, that he had Neal in that cell, but he knew it wouldn’t help. He wanted to place his hand on Neal’s shoulder to try and comfort the tears he knew were escaping down his cheeks but he didn’t, he didn’t know what to do.

************

The HIV test came back negative.”

“Oh god, thank you,” Peter said as a smile escaped his lips.

“We’ll have to do a few more tests in the coming weeks to make sure it stays that way,” the doctor said.

“Of course, I’ll make sure.”

“I do recommend counseling and a nutritionist. I have already discussed those things with him, he hasn’t really responded though.”

Peter nodded. “I’ll help him anyway I can.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Agent Burke, I’m no psychologist, but it is obvious you care for Neal a great deal. I can see the toll this trauma has had on you.”

“I’m fine.”

“I’m not saying you’re not. I’m just saying that this may have affected you more than you realize and it’s important for Neal’s sake that you take care of yourself.”

He considered what the young doctor was telling him. She had a point. He pushed himself to the limit and he was close to going overboard. This had indeed affected him greatly. He put his time and energy into finding Neal and watching the pieces that were left of the man trying to hold on had affected him even greater.

“Okay, thank you doctor. For everything.”

“He’ll be fine. And so will you.”

*************

A total of 18 days passed before Neal was given clearance to leave the hospital. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to leave though.

The Marshals outside his door actually let him sleep for more than 3 hours at a time before he woke up from a nightmare. Even though they were meant to protect the world from Neal, Neal strangely found them protecting him from the world.

“You ready?” Peter asked as he zipped up Neal’s hoodie. He didn’t like how he was swimming in his clothes; they were too big on his still skeletal frame.

Neal didn’t respond verbally, he simply stuck his left foot out.

Peter cursed himself. “We’re not going to put the anklet back on.”

“Why not?”

“Considering …what happened…the bureau doesn’t think you need it…they’ve been talking about ending your sentence Neal…” Peter wanted a smile, anything to let him know that Neal understood what he was saying.

“Put the anklet back on me, please?”

Peter shouldn’t have understood why he wanted it but he sadly did. Neal wanted Peter to know where he was at all times. He hated that Neal wanted to be caged.“I’ll get you one, okay?”

Neal nodded and put his ankle down.

“Do you want to come back to my house?”

“I just want to go home,” he said so quietly Peter barely heard him.

Peter’s hands shook as he helped Neal into the wheelchair. He didn’t know what to do to help the poor man in front of him. He had been looking for him for months and although he finally found him, he knew deep down inside that he never really would find the Neal Caffrey he once knew.


	2. Chapter 2

1 month. 30 days. 720 hours. That’s how much time passed since Neal had left the hospital. A lot can happen within that time. People can grow, they can move, they can change. Neal did none of those things. He spoke when spoken to, flinched when someone got too close to him, and breathed too unevenly when he slept too long.

“Tell me this is just a sick joke, Brian,” Peter said as he stared at the young prosecutor in front of him.

“I wish it were, Agent Burke, but the fact of the matter remains; if Neal doesn’t testify, Rick Johnson might walk out of that court room a free man.”

His knees shook as he reached for my chair; he fell into it with no grace; like a choppy wave against jagged rocks. “He can’t handle that. Didn’t you see what he went through?”

“I saw it, but that bastard’s got the best legal dream team in New York.”

“There has to be another way. What about the others?”

“From my understanding, they weren’t held against their will. Most of those guys are out there working the streets as we speak. Even if we do get one of them to testify against Johnson, it would only hurt Neal.”

“How?”

“I’d bet my money that Johnson’s lawyers will turn it around and paint him as a willing participant.”

“But there were others that were . . . held there . . . just like Neal.”

Brian didn’t say anything at first. He readjusted his tie before clearing his throat. “We can’t find them, Agent Burke. Some of them have been missing for years.”

Peter shuddered. He knew what he was saying. They were dead. “But we found another man in that warehouse when my team found Neal.”

“I know.”

“Is he still in the coma?”

Again the prosecutor readjusted his tie. “No.”

“Then get him to testify.”

“He died yesterday from his injuries.”

Peter cringed. “So Neal has to testify?”

“No, but if he does, it will make my case against him a lot stronger.”

***********

“Are you sure you want to watch this?” Brian asked.

“No," Peter said, "but I have to so that I can prepare myself for what I’m going to tell Neal.”

Peter gripped his mug of coffee, knowing if he didn’t he would tear the skin off his fingers. He hated seeing this monster on the screen, watching him answer the questions so casually, so effortless, so happily. Look, he was even given a cup of water.

_“How did you meet Mr. Caffrey?”_

_“I met him about 4 months ago in Central Park. He came right up to me and asked me who I was. I told him about myself and we seemed to hit it off,” Johnson replied._

_“Describe your relationship with him please.”_

_“It was purely physical.”_

_“Would you provide some more details please?”_

_“He told me he was into the whole domination scene. I just did what he asked me to.”_

_“So it was consensual?”_

_“Oh yes. He told me he really enjoyed being tied up, being hit, that was his thing. He really got off on it.”_

_“Is there anyone else that can testify as to what you’re saying?”_

_“Yes, quite a few. Neal was very open about sharing; we had a few others join us. I’m sure they will all agree with me when I say he enjoyed every minute of it.”_

_“So Mr. Caffrey never told you to stop?”_

_“Absolutely not--”_

I stopped the video. I couldn’t watch another minute of this garbage. “I…I can’t believe this.”

“Son of a bitch,” Brian said. “He’s not going to walk. I’m going to make damn sure of it.”

I excused myself; I wouldn’t tell Elizabeth that the lunch she made for me didn’t taste as good when it came back up.

********

“I-I can’t do this…” he whispered.

“Yes you can, Neal, I’ll be there throughout the whole thing,” Peter said. Ache filled the air stress filled into his fine lines. He wrapped the blanket around his thin shoulders, wishing it would swallow him from this Earth.

“It’s just a few questions with his lawyer,” Brian said.

“I don’t understand . . . why there is even a possibility that he could walk away from this,” Neal said softly.

“I know it’s hard for you to understand, it’s hard for me to understand too, but this is the way it is unfortunately,” Brian said.“He won’t even be there during your deposition.”

“But I’ll have to see him eventually in court . . . right?”

Brian and Peter looked at each other, both trying to avoid the answer.

“Right?” Neal asked again, this time he was looking right at Peter.

“If it gets to that point…yes,” he said.

“I can’t. Please. Please don’t make me. I’ll do anything else you want. Please don’t make me do this,” Neal begged.

Peter looked like his stomach was tumbling into pits. He hated this. The way Neal just begged , like he could offer something else in exchange for the hell that was about to rain on him, the way he looked at him, thinking he was one of them.

“Listen to me, if you don’t want to do this you don’t have to okay? I need you to understand that. This is your choice. You are in control here okay? But there’s a bigger chance of him walking away from this if you don’t testify,” Peter said gently.

“We don’t want him to go free and do this to someone else. He needs to pay for what he did to you. What he did to those other people,” Brain said.

“You can lock him up this time, Neal,” Peter said.

Neal nodded but it was forced. As the two left his apartment, they both undoubtedly heard him vomit the little food Peter knew Neal allowed himself to eat for the day.

***********

_“Please…let me go…” Neal begged._

_“Oh Neal, you know I can’t do that,” Johnson sneered._

_“I have money." He laughed at that._

_“You don’t have enough money, that’s the problem. Now stop crying and get cleaned up, your next appointment is here.”_

_“Please. I can’t--”_

_“If you’re not quick about it you’re going to see what it’s like when I get angry.”_

_“But--”_

_“Think real hard before you finish that sentence. I’ve been nice to you so far.”_

_“Why are you doing this to me?”_

_“It’s nothing personal, it’s business.”_

_But it was personal to Neal._

*************

“Let the record state this deposition is taking place March 26, 2014. My client Rick Johnson is not present. Please state your name for the record,” the older lawyer said. Peter could tell he was as crooked as his nose.

“Neal Caffrey,” he said softly.

“You’ll have to speak up so the microphone picks it up.”

“Neal Caffrey,” he said. It was louder than before but it only emphasized the shakiness in his voice.

“Have you ever been convicted of a crime?”

“Yes.”

“What kind?”

“Bond forgery.”

“I see.” The lawyer stayed silent for a moment after that, letting the implications rise up like steam during a sauna. “Mr. Caffrey, your deal with the F.B.I. allows you to extend your expertise to them, helping to solve cases in the white collar division, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And how do they monitor you?”

"I don’t see how that’s relevant,” Brian said.

“It’s relevant to me. Please answer Mr. Caffrey,” Johnson’s lawyer said firmly.

“An electronic tracking anklet.”

“Has this anklet ever been removed from your person?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“When I go undercover.”

“How is it taken off?”

“There’s a key to it.”

"And who has this key?"

"Peter Burke."

“It seems this anklet is not without fault. It is possible to remove it without the key, say by tampering with it.”

“That’s not a question.”

“I’m getting to it Brian. Mr. Caffrey, am I correct in stating that two years ago a commutation hearing took place to discuss the possibility of an early release from your sentence?”

“Yes.”

“Were you granted that release?”

“No.”

“And then I see in your file that your anklet was removed the same day your commutation hearing ended. How is that possible if you were denied an early release?”

Neal didn’t answer.

“Mr. Caffrey, may I remind you that you are under oath.”

“It was removed.”

“Were you undercover? Is that why it was removed?”

“No, but--”

“Did you remove it without any authority to do so?”

Neal didn’t answer.

“Mr. Caffrey?”

“Yes but I was--”

“I also see in your file that a search was initiated by Agent Burke to locate your whereabouts, a search that lasted three months, is that correct?”

Again, Neal was silent.

“Where did you go, Mr. Caffrey?”

No answer.

“Did you go to Cape Verde?”

Nothing.

“Okay, I'll ask you an easier question. It states here that 4 months ago there again was another discussion regarding the possibility of a release. I also have a memo from the F.B.I. that specifically denies that request. Now, the date of that memo coincidentally coincides with the date you claim my client allegedly kidnapped you. But that’s not really what happened, is it?”

Peter saw Neal’s hands starting to shake underneath the table.

“Do you see what I see, Mr. Caffrey? Because I see a distinct pattern here. It appears that once a discussion regarding your release is initiated, and then that request is denied, you tamper with your anklet, remove it, and run away for a period of three to four months before Agent Burke hunts you down and captures you again.”

“Okay that’s enough,” Brian said.

“I’m not finished. Is it possible Mr. Caffrey, that after being rejected for your release once again, you cut your anklet and ran away?”

“I didn’t cut it!”

“Well it seems that if you could do it once, you certainly could do it again. Does that seem possible?”

“That’s not what happened!” Neal yelled as tears leaked out of his eyes.

“That doesn’t answer my question. Does that scenario seem possible to you, Mr Caffrey?”

No answer.

“That’s okay, you don’t have to answer this time, but a jury will answer my question, and they indeed will find it possible. They’ll find it possible that you cut your anklet and decided to engage in a voluntary sexual relationship with my client, that you were playing out one of your fantasies, that you were creating your own Cape Verde right here in New York City!”

Peter punched the lawyer. “He said that’s enough,” Peter sneered as he wiped the blood off his knuckles and stormed out of the room.

************

Peter pushed the cup of tea towards Neal in hopes he would drink it but he didn’t. He stared mindlessly into the space in front of him, keeping his arms crossed in front of his chest, shielding himself from any further humiliation.

“I’m sorry,” Peter said. “You didn’t deserve that.”

“Yes I did,” Neal whispered.

“No you didn’t.”

Neal didn’t respond, he simply brought his hand to the back of his neck and grazed the scars that lined it.

“Neal, I’m sorry for what happened in there but unfortunately it’s just a taste of what they are going to ask you on the stand. They’re going to be brutal. I need you to stay strong okay?” Brian asked.

Neal threw the tea cup at the wall, it shattered into pieces. He felt a kindred spirit with it.

************

_“It’s okay,” Neal said softly as he ripped his shirt and wiped the blood coming out of his nose with it._

_“H...hel…help me,” Mark whispered as he gripped my hand harder._

_Neal didn’t say anything. He couldn’t help him and they both knew it, he just didn’t want to say it aloud._

_Mark died a few minutes later._

_“Please! Don’t take him!” I screamed when they took his body out of the cell. He was still warm. When his touch left my hand I brought my knees to my chest and cried silently. Now he was really alone._

Neal?” Peter asked.

He didn’t respond, it was as if he was in some sort of trance.

“Neal!”

He didn’t jump, he didn’t shudder, he simply turned his head. “What?” he asked calmly.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”  Peter handed him a tissue. He took it but he looked confused. “What’s this for?” 

“You’re crying.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit explicit/graphic...so read at your own risk! And thanks for the comments/kudos/just reading. Enjoy.

Neal wiped the blood dripping down from him nose along the sleeve of his naked arm. He wanted to go home. He wanted to be back in the normal prison. He wanted to be anywhere but here.

The man was new today. He was a very powerful man, in what field? That part was unclear. Neal was never given too much detail about any of them. But this stack of evil here, even in Neal's firmest structure, was microscopic next to him. He could smash into him draped in thick armor and it would take a puff of air from his mouth to send him to his feet, a place he was told was appropriate for a _thing_ like him.

Today Neal felt weaker than usual, but he knew that every day forward he would continue feel that way. He felt weak, stupid, and too careless to know how to stay ahead, too pompous to think anything really bad could ever happen to him, and too pretty to be considered anything more than a street whore.

“Tell me, Neal, are you scared?”

When he didn’t answer, the man put his meaty paws around Neal's throat, but not tightly. He just did this to let him know that if he didn’t obey, he would never know what would happen next. It was like they were playing cards; Neal didn't know if he had any winning ones but the man's poker face told him he was going to lose this hand and every one to follow.

“Answer me. Are you scared?”

“Yes,” he succumbed.

He kept his hands around Neal and put his full body weight on his stomach, sitting on top of him like he was a cheap plastic lawn chair. He leaned forward into the crook of his exposed neck, the whiskey on his thick breath sickened Neal in a new way. “Good. You should be,” he said firmly.

When he was done using Neal, he told him he was the best he ever had. He told him his skin felt like velvet cake and that his lips looked like the soft whipped frosting that covered it. He said he wished he could have kissed them but he couldn’t. That was one of the rules, no kissing on the mouth.

That’s all Neal remembered from that interaction. He remembered the beginning and the end, but never the middle. He had to block the middle out because the middle, like a ribeye steak with all the fat still on it, could have created a blockage inside of him and killed him.

When he put his suit back on, the same one he would end up cutting a million dollar deal in, he didn’t look at Neal. He kept his back to him the entire time and Neal studied it. He would look at the moles, the rolls of fat, the skin that zipped up and hid his black soul. And Neal knew why the man didn’t look at him. He was ashamed. Ashamed of himself, of Neal, of what he was a part of.

He saw Neal a few more times before he was ‘rescued’, or ‘saved’; neither of which _really_ happened. But the last time Neal saw him, he was high on cocaine or meth or perhaps a cocktail of the two. Instead of using Neal like he always did, he ravaged him, tore him apart, used his body like he was smashing a baseball club against a wall. Neal had received a number of beatings in here, but this one, this one was the worst. He was thankful for it really; he couldn’t be used by anyone for two weeks that after. He almost died, and his biggest qualm with that it is that he didn’t.

Every time Neal saw him, he always asked if he was scared. Neal always answered the same and the man always retorted the same. But that time, that time before he did those things that Neal really didn’t want him to do, he told Neal what was to become of him. And he said it so simply that it almost seemed charming.

“You’re going to die in here, Neal.”

So not only was he a monster, an inhumane piece of filth, he was also a liar.

*************

The first time anyone touched Neal he was drugged. Pumped so full of haze he didn’t even feel anything even though it should have hurt. He knew it wasn’t for his comfort, it was for theirs; no one liked a screamer.

The first time Neal wasn’t drugged, he cried and screamed until he tasted the blood from his broken vocal chords. Later when he recounted the event, he realized he screamed for nothing. He also realized he should have been thankful; there were worst tastes out there.

The first time Neal was ordered to dance, there were four of them. There was a party and Neal was the favor. Those fantastic four shoved cocaine up his nose; told him he would like it, but he knew they just wanted that look of fear to melt off his face. If it looked like he was having a good time, they didn’t feel so bad about what they were doing. It didn’t help though; in fact Neal felt worse; woozy and nauseous. Their faces dragged out like those looking in a fun-house mirror, their laughs were drawn out and evil, their touch radiated hot on his skin like fire.

They tricked him too. Promising water if he obeyed, and he did because he knew he could also die of thirst, but when the party continued and water was never received, Neal realized dehydration wasn’t such a bad way to go compared to this.

Then there were the cruel ones. Those were the ones that requested they have him as soon as the drugs left his system so that he was lazy, unable to fully move, yet able to feel the pain.

Neal knew there were cameras. He knew it before one of them directed him to look into one while he was being played with. He knew these monsters wanted a copy of this so that they could pleasure themselves later without paying the hefty fee.

Then Neal devised a plan; if he wasn’t drugged he was going to fight. He was going to throw punches and kicks and even use his teeth if presented the opportunity. It wasn’t for redemption or revenge, it was so they could kill him in response. But they never did, they just beat him to a pulp and extended his torture.

If Neal could consider any one of his  _visitors_ nice, he could remember only one. He gave Neal water and wiped his face with a damp rag, telling him red wasn’t his color. He wasn’t rough either but that doesn’t mean he liked it. Neal didn’t something stupid though with that one, he talked to him.

“Why?” was all Neal had the strength to say.

And the man on top of him looked into his blue eyes and then he felt the hardness in between his legs deflate. He put his clothes on without finishing and loosened the leather around Neal's neck so he could breathe easier.

It wasn’t more than a minute later when Johnson came in. He stood over Neal for long minutes, not saying a word. Neal expected a slap or a knock in the jaw, lose another tooth perhaps. It didn’t happen. Instead he tightened the ropes around his wrists and the strap around his neck, made sure the chains that kept him bolted to the table were fastened so securely that the bones in his back rubbed harshly against it, turned the lights off and left the room.

He didn’t come back for three days.

Neal learned after that to never open his mouth unless instructed to because that, that was worse than dying.

**************

The worst part of it all was actually leaving and transitioning back into ‘normal’ life, going about his day like this didn’t happen. But he knew it did, and everyone around him knew it did too. They treated him just like _they_ did, like he wasn’t a full person, like he was a broken toy. It was as if he was hard pieces of clay that had been left out in the sun too long and then they put him under water to make him smooth and creamy, clumped him back together, and hoped the cracks wouldn’t show when he dried.

But the most terrible thing about it, the part that made Neal wither away, was the part when someone who he trusted for most of his adult life told him that he was safe, that no one was ever going to hurt him again. But then when he manipulated Neal and asked him to one day in the near future to walk into a court room and look at his captor…Neal knew he was lying. Neal realized he never cared about him at all. That really was the worst part of it because it broke his heart. And that made Neal angry because he thought everything inside of him was already broken.

**************

The depositions continued and so the humiliation continued. Neal let them characterize him as manipulative, that this was one big con, he let them call him a whore, he let them implicate that he loved it, not liked it, but loved it. He didn’t care. This all really wasn’t that bad compared to being touched against your will; at least here he could get up and leave if he wanted to.

Neal suspects Peter became worried when his reactions became less existent and when he hugged him after a particularly brutal questioning Neal let him, because he knew he was nothing more than a prop to be squeezed.

Johnson’s lawyers probably thought they had won, broken him down, let him see that they were going to win but Neal had them fooled from the beginning. Even though that look of defeat on his face wasn’t intentional, he knew he had the upper hand because it made him see they didn't know anything; they didn’t understand he had nothing left.

Peter wanted Neal to scream, cry, yell. He did none of those things. Then one day he brought him to a gym. Not the kind where fancy machines were housed or lithe bodies covered the equipment; no, this was the kind of gym were boxers trained, where rats had lunch and guys named Moe spit into buckets in the corner.

Neal let Peter put the boxing gloves on him because hey, maybe Johnson’s lawyers were right, maybe he was into hurting myself.

“Hit the bag, Neal,” he said as he pushed it towards him.

Neal obliged and gave it a light tap. He looked to see if Peter was satisfied and instantly saw he wasn’t. Neal had seen that face on too many others too many times to know it was anything but.

“Hit it hard. Hit it with everything you got.” I

Neal didn’t hit it at all that time. 

Then the third circle of hell that Neal was currently sharing with Peter widened a bit more because he saw before him Peter Burke raise his hand to his eyes and miserably fail at hiding his tears.

He pushed the bag aside and got in his face. “Hit me, Neal! Hit me hard!”

Neal stared at him and didn’t move. His eyes told him he was afraid, that if this were any other circumstance he would have hit Neal first to get him riled up, get him all angry and hit him back in reaction to his action, but they both knew he couldn’t do that. Then Neal saw he didn’t know why he was standing so close to him, as if he knew it wouldn’t do a thing to instigate him but he got it, impulses can make you a crazy bastard.

“You understand why I’m doing this, don’t you?” Peter asked finally.

And Neal did understand. He wanted Neal to release. Channel his horror through his fist and let Peter's face take the fault. But Neal couldn’t hit him because he knew if he hit him once it would feel good, and then he knew he would take _their_ faces and put them on Peter's and hit him second time, then a third, then a fourth, and then Neal would continue to hit him until he knew with great certainty that his fingers were broken beyond repair.

“If I hit you . . . I’ll kill you,” Neal said as I threw the gloves at his feet.

**************

Then the damning piece of evidence came in. No, not damning for Neal, but for Johnson. Well perhaps it was damning for him as well. Neal stood outside Peter’s office, listening to the prosecutor's words.

“It took some time, but it was worth the wait,” Brian said as he laid down a DVD.

“I’m not watching another one of those depositions,” Peter said tiredly.

“Good, because I didn’t bring one. I don’t want you to watch this either though, I just wanted to show you that I meant it when I said I wasn’t going to let this bastard walk.”

“Okay, what is it and why don’t you want me to watch it?”

Him and that damn tie readjusting. Stupid quirks.

“We both know Johnson is sick, right? Well, this just proves how sick; he recorded every single one of his . . . encounters, and he also recorded every encounter Neal had with anyone else. Not only am I going to put Johnson away, but every other monster on here as well.”

Peter took his hand off the DVD. He didn’t want to touch it. Neal’s hell, all wrapped up and encoded on a silver disc at his finger tips.

“Apparently Johnson isn’t that bright either. He recorded his conversations. I have 82 transcripts. All of them specifically describing how much he was . . . selling Neal for. I mean the guy actually bragged about it.”

Neal stormed in, unable to take another minute. He grabbed the DVD and smashed it hard against the floor. It broke and he smiled.

“What are you doing?” Peter stated in complete confusion.

“It’s okay, that’s just a copy--”

“Well burn them all!” Neal yelled as he stepped on the plastic cover. 

“Neal. Calm down.” Peter said.

“Calm down?! _Everyone_ is going to see. Everyone! Is that what you want??! I’ve put up with enough bullshit--”

“Neal, you don’t understand, only a judge will see this. No one else. This will guarantee that he stays locked--”

“Locked up? He’ll have a bed, three meals a day, a whole hour for exercise. That’s not locked up _prosecutor_.”

“I understand you’re upset, Neal--”

“Oh, you understand? Well then, okay, thanks for clearing that up for me. Go ahead then. Show it to everyone! I know, how about we film a little introduction that you can attach to it? I’ll do a little dance? Now that _you_ understand!”

They didn’t say anything. He saw them look at the floor, guilt glazing their eyes like holiday peppermint sticks.

“It’s not meant to hurt you. it’s meant to help you,” the prosecutor said.

And then it was Neal staring at the floor, but not with guilt, it was with embarrassment. Neal just realized the man in front of him had most likely had seen what was on that DVD. A shiver ran down his spine and he entered the familiar territory of humiliation. He really knew Neal now didn’t he?

Neal ran out, ignoring Peter’s cries to stay.

“I’m sorry about that Brian. He’s been so quiet and now all of a sudden--”

“I’m not sorry. That was good what Neal just did.”

“What?”

“I’ve been watching him in those depositions for weeks now Agent Burke. I really thought he was gone. He’s not gone, he’s here and he’s ready to fight.”


	4. Chapter 4

She knocked a few times, each louder than the last. She heard no movement, no feet shuffling, no moving of a body.

“Neal? It’s Elizabeth. Can I come in?” She heard crying, painful sobs being emitted from his mouth. She cringed as she pictured him on the bed, burying his head in a pillow to muffle the inhumane noise.

“Go away, Elizabeth,” he said through his tears.

“Please, just let me in?” When he realized she wasn’t going to leave, he opened the door. His face was wet with sweat and tears. She pulled him into a hug and let him ruin her sweater but she didn’t care. 

She made him tea and they sat outside on his balcony, some fresh air would do him . . . not anything good, but she hoped it would do him something.

“Are you mad at Peter?” she asked. They hadn’t spoken in the four days.

“No,” he whispered.

“If he calls you later, will you pick up? Or if he comes by?”

He was silent. She opened her mouth to speak again but he cut her off. “He knows what . . . that I . . .”

“What is it hunny?”

“He . . . just knows that I couldn’t . . .  that I was . . . am weak--”

“Weak? You think Peter would see you as weak?”

“Yes.”

“He would never do that.”

He turned his head towards the street, away from her face, and spoke words that were unfortunately true. “You’d be surprised what people are capable of doing.”

***********

Elizabeth told her husband about the conversation she had with Neal, and Peter was so unbelievably pissed. Not at her, not at Neal, but at the whole goddamn situation. Neal’s mind had been warped so badly by those monsters that he actually thought he would view him as weak. Peter was so angry at that thought that he called Brian up and asked, no begged, to get some alone time with Rick Johnson. 15 seconds was all he needed. That’s how much time it would take for him to punch his fist through his skull.

Brian calmed him down and of course Peter didn’t see the son of a bitch. Instead he walked around Central Park trying to clear his head, thinking of ways to make Neal . . . I don’t know . . . better? But instead he went to an expensive deli, got some subs with ridiculously overpriced Italian cheese on them and went to June’s. He let Peter in on the second knock.

He took four and half bites of the sandwich before he retired it to the table. Peter knew it was four and a half more than he wanted.

“Uh uh, you have to eat at least half.”

He could have said no, said he wasn’t hungry, say he’d eat later, but he didn’t. He just looked guilty, like he was a kid who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar before dinner time.

“Sorry,” he said as he picked it back up.

Peter sighed. He made the connection too late. This is what Neal had been plagued with, obeying or bleeding. “No, I’m sorry. If you don’t want it, you don’t have to eat it.”

“Okay, thank you.”

“For what?”

“Saying that.”

Peter's mind wandered back to what he would do if he were alone with Rick Johnson after that.

“About before . . . how I acted. I shouldn’t have gotten so angry in your office.”

“It’s more than fine. Don’t worry about it, Neal.”

He nodded but Peter knew he would worry anyways. He would worry about who would see it, what they would say, what they would think. He couldn’t stop worrying. Then he shifted uncomfortably in his chair, wincing in the process.

“You okay?”

“Back hurts,” he said in a frustrated tone. 

He was still in pain, even though it had been two months. Peter wished more than anything to take it away from him. As he surveyed him, he could tell he was tense, but he was always tense now, he was pale too, and so goddamn thin. He’d only manage to gain ten pounds, the amount needed for him to survive but not an ounce more. Peter tried to feed him when he could, which meant when he wasn’t paying attention. He'd shove a granola bar in his hand or give him a Tupperware bowl filled with food Elizabeth made especially for him. None of it helped. Perhaps his stomach just couldn’t handle it after being deprived of food for so long or perhaps the constant stress melted the calories away; either way, he looked terrible.

Peter guessed he caught him looking because he pulled his sweater tighter around him. “Sorry,” he said.

“It’s okay,” Neal whispered.

And Peter believed him because he wasn’t looking at him like _they_ had.

************

She laid on top of him, her naked chest against his. Her lips gently grazed his soft ones, the slight stubble on his chin tickled her face. She hadn’t seen him in a while, a job in the city called for her presence here and so the familiar call was made to him. He looked different, all his muscle definition was gone, his face seemed strained even when they weren’t talking, and he was nervous to her touch. That last part didn’t sit well with her at all.

They were on his bed, both half naked and he too passive. He wasn’t talking much and kept his eyes closed. She could feel through his boxers that he wasn’t interested in this; but it was strange because he accepted the call. She got off him, not angry but concerned. “What wrong?” she asked.

He finally opened his eyes and looked at her. He looked like a lost puppy, as if he were afraid to give the wrong answer. “Nothing.”

“You tired?” He shook his head but he took his eyes away from her when he made the gesture so she couldn’t tell if he was lying. They sat in silence for a minute before he spoke.

“Alex . . . can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Whenever we had . . . I mean in the past when we did this--”

“Had sex?”

“Yea, did it feel . . . I mean did it ever . . . did I ever hurt you?”

She giggled but then stopped immediately when she saw he was serious. Her eyes then widened at the question. Why in the world would he ask that? And the way he asked…so timidly, looking at his hands the entire time. “No, Neal. Never. You never hurt me.”

He swallowed hard; she knew he was fighting back tears. “So . . . it didn’t hurt?”

Whatever this was about, she knew it wasn’t about her. “Look at me, Neal.”

He obliged and awkwardly rubbed his eyes trying to convince her of all people that he wasn’t crying. “You never hurt me. It always felt good. Great actually. You were always a gentleman. Okay?” He nodded but she could tell he didn’t understand. “Did . . . did something happen to you, Neal?”

He didn’t answer; instead he pulled the blanket over his chest and turned onto his side. The scars embedded in his back told her something indeed had happened to him. Something bad. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“It’s okay, don’t’ worry about it,” she replied as she placed her hand on his shoulder.

His fingers found hers and he held her hand. “I thought I was getting better,” he said before drifting off sleep.

****************

“Spill.”

“What? My coffee all over you? That would be rude.”

“Cut the crap, you know what I’m talking about, Mozzie.”

Mozzie did indeed know what the young lady in front of him was talking about. He could tell her the inhumane story that his best friend was now attached to for life, but he didn’t. It wasn’t his story to tell. “I can’t, Alex.”

“Are you protecting someone by not telling me?”

“Yes.”

“I bet you can’t tell me who that is either right?”

“I’m protecting Neal.”

“Goddamit, Mozzie, you’re really freaking me out, not to mention what happened when I saw him. Please. Tell me.”

He shifted in his seat; the French baguette in front of him had lost its appeal many minutes ago, now it just seemed like a hard rotten piece of wood that only gremlins gobbled on if they were bored. “I won’t tell you much, but I’ll tell you what you need to know.”

She nodded and gulped down the rest of her wine; she was smart, always thinking ahead. She knew the alcohol would cushion the emotional incision he was about to cut into her. She knew whatever he was to say would weigh down her soul.

“Rick Johnson.” Mozzie felt the baguette come back as that disgusting name glided off his tongue.

She shook her head. “You mean . . . that . . . the one who ran that prost--”

“Yes.”

She shook her head again. “The papers said there was only one victim that was still alive. Are you telling me that--”

“I’m not telling you anything remember? I just told you that because I don’t need you freaking out or giving Neal shit if he doesn’t act the way he used to around you.”

Mozzie expected a smart retort from her, a harrowing insult or a nasty comment. He got none. Instead he got what he wasn’t expecting and far worse didn’t know how to handle. Alexandra Hunter was crying. He gave her his napkin but that was it, he didn’t know what to do after that.

He went back to his storage unit, needing to lie down for a few hours. He could have gone to Neal’s, see how he was doing but he couldn’t. He didn’t mean to ostracize himself from him; he just didn’t know how to act around him anymore.

He had seen him only three times since his return. Once in the hospital when he was unconscious and he couldn’t stand it so he left.

The second time he brought over some goodies but Neal didn’t drink the wine or eat the cheese. He barely talked either. Mozzie acted like everything was fine, like it was before, like he wasn’t missing for all those months. Mozzie didn’t bring it up; emotions weren’t his thing. He's not proud of it, ignoring his pain and all, but he knew talking about it or not talking about it, he would always suffer.

The third time Mozzie saw him, he didn’t speak, but neither did he. He didn’t understand why this happened and he didn’t pretend to either. He knows he ignored it at first but when Neal was too weak to get up from the bed, when he didn’t even try to muffle the cries, when Mozzie saw his bones sticking out in places he knew they shouldn’t, he knew he was wasting away and he couldn’t ignore that.

************

“Agent Burke?”

“Brian, what can I do for you?”

“Where is Neal?”

“Um, at home I believe, why?” Seconds passed. “Brian what is it?”

“Johnson wasn’t in his cell this morning. Peter, they think he escaped.”

Peter didn’t even hang up. He just grabbed his keys and ran to the car. He called Diana, told her he didn’t have time to explain and to send a unit to Neal’s apartment as fast as she could.

When he got to June’s, the other agents were already there. Peter ignored the maids and butlers staring at him as he went in with his gun drawn. When he got to Neal’s room, his heart almost stopped. It was empty and the balcony door was open.

“No signs of struggle,” an agent said.

“No. No,” Peter said as he lowered his weapon. “Not again, please not again.” He knew if he was taken again, he would never ever get him back, even if they found him.

“Put your hands up! Don’t move!” someone yelled.

Peter turned around to see who was there but couldn’t see a thing. Three agents had swarmed the person at the door and sent him or her to the ground. Then there was silence. There was no movement, no struggle. But then, then there was crying.

“Get off of him!” he yelled. 

Peter bent down and pushed the agents away, coffee was spilled on the floor next to him, some was splattered on his shirt. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he repeated as he grabbed for his arm. He pushed him away roughly. Peter grabbed again, this time with a softer grip and helped him up, this time Neal let him. He was led to a chair where he proceeded to pushed his head down and tried to breathe.

“I’m sorry Neal, it was--”

“Am I in trouble?” he asked in between labored breathes.

“What? No! No, absolutely not.”

“Then what . . . ?”

Peter waited as long as he could, but not as long as he wanted. “Neal, I have to tell you something. Umm…the uh-”

“Just say it!” he screamed in total panic.

“Johnson escaped from prison.” Peter would never forget how his eyes widened in fear and not shock, as if he expected this, but there weren’t enough cushions in the world to soften the fall. He shook his head feverishly as his breathing failed him again. “I’m going to have an agent with you at all times and more outside June’s, and believe me, many more looking for him. You have nothing to worry about, okay?”

His eyes squinted, as if Peter were speaking an extinct language. “What?”

“We’re going to find--”

“No, that last part.”

“You don’t have to worry, Neal. I promise.”

And then he did something Peter didn’t expect. He pushed him. Pushed him so hard that Peter fell into the chair behind him. He grabbed onto to it to keep himself from falling to the ground.

“Neal--”

“No, shut up!” he yelled as he pushed again. “I’ve been quiet, patient, and subordinate for a long time now to a lot of people. But I’m not going to stand here and let you lie right to my face!”

“I just meant--”

“Yea, I know what you meant. But you obviously don’t know what I meant! So go ahead _Agent Burke_ , watch one of those videos, I beg you to. I want you to you watch a full minute, that’s it. Then I want you to come back here and tell me not to worry!”

“I know--”

“No you don’t! You don’t . . .” he said as tears choked him. “You just see what’s left…”

Peter wanted to say sorry, wanted to hug him, reassure him, but Neal fell to his knees before being to do so. He was in tears, unable to breathe, unable to think. He was breaking even more.

Peter kicked the agents out, told them to secure the house and the perimeter around it. He grabbed the quilt on the bed and placed it on Neal's shoulders. When he calmed down a bit, Peter gave him water.

“You don’t understand . . . what they did to me . . .” he said.

Peter didn’t say anything because he was right. He didn’t know anything. Who was he to judge how sickly thin he was or how sad he appeared. But Peter knew that Neal was stronger than him in every possible way because if he even went through a minute of his hell, he wouldn’t have lived to tell another human that they didn’t understand. But Peter knew that if he did understand, if he saw a glimpse of what he was subjected to, h'ed have nightmares. He also knew that Neal had his own nightmares, but he had them whether his eyes were open or closed.

Peter stayed with him for the next few hours, calling Brian every other one for updates but got his voice mail.

“You don’t have to stay.” he said from his bed.

“Yes I do.”

He sighed. “If he wants to get me, he’ll find a way. There’s nothing you can do about it. Might as well go home to Elizabeth.”

Peter threw his hand at the empty glass on the table. “Goddamit, Neal! Don’t say that! Don’t say things like that! He is not going to get to you! I promise!”

He didn’t turn around to face him; but Peter heard the sobs. He stepped over the glass and made his way to the bed. “I’m sorry, Neal, I didn’t mean to do that.”

“Frustrating…isn’t it?” he said finally.

Before Peter could respond, his phone rang. “Tell me you found that son of a bitch,” he said to Brian on the other line.

“Even better. He’s dead.”

“What?!”

“Rick Johnson is dead. Turns out he didn’t escape from prison. Apparently a few other inmates had some bad feelings towards him. They got wind of what he had done and they beat him. He bled to death in the showers.”

Although Peter never felt satisfied when he found out a human being had left this Earth, especially in a gruesome manner, he felt a calm wash over his entire being. He knew with certainty that he could keep my promise to Neal.

*************

The fourth time Mozzie saw Neal, he was sitting out on his balcony, headphones in his ears, espresso by his fingers and a piece of toast in his mouth. He passed on the offer for coffee, instead helping himself to a bottle of ‘82 French port. That was a good year. Neal looked better, color in his face, his cheeks a little fuller; the air around him wasn’t so dark.

There was a knock at the door and Peter didn’t wait for anyone to answer. He let himself in and smiled as he looked at the scene before him. After a few cups of coffee and some more wine, Mozzie felt happy, not for himself, but for Neal. He was laughing and smiling again. Pieces of his life were finding him and coming back home.

When Neal excused himself to the bathroom, Peter took the opportunity to discuss some private matters. “It’s Neal birthday in a few weeks, we should do something nice for him.”

“What did you have in mind, mon frère?”

“Maybe we could rent out one of those fancy restaurants that he used to go to? I’m sure with your expertise you could find something like that?”

Mozzie nodded in compliance.

“I don’t know what kind of gift to get him, any ideas?”

Mozzie didn’t tell Peter he had already given Neal his gift, then again, he hadn’t told Neal either. He would never know actually what he gave him, but it was the reason he was able to sit and actually smile. Turns out some former colleagues of Mozzie's, which unfortunately had been put away for crimes they allegedly committed, owed him some big favors. Well some of them owed him favors, the ones who didn’t owe him anything contracted the same amount of venom for the monster that lurked behind the cells a few feet away from them. And they were more than happy to contribute to his gift.

“We’ll think of something,” Mozzie replied.

“He’s doing better, isn’t he?” Peter asked with a smile as he put a grape in his mouth.

Mozzie nodded in agreement. “He most certainly is.”

Neal was no longer lost, they found him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


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